


to be happy

by bluecarrot



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Charity Auctions, Hamburr, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Sad and Happy, Sad with a Happy Ending, Some Plot, Tarot References, commission, or just sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:39:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10101155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: I don't want anything, he'd said.I want you to be happy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pensiveVisionary (hamburr)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamburr/gifts).



> written Feb-March 2017.

 

The sure thing, Alex thought, was that Burr would be there. He shut his eyes at night and the reading-light was still on and Burr was there. He woke to moonlight and the familiar head on the pillow matching his own pillow and he saw again, with wonder and decreasing disbelief, the way Burr's face relaxed into creases and his skin looked bizarrely transparent, as if sleep reduced him to elements: vein, blood, bone. Waking restored all that complexity; it returned animus to form. Reanimation, thought Alex. Resurrection. Resuscitation, he wanted to tell him, would have to wake him to tell him, would not do. Burr: the things I could do with my mouth.

Aaron knew these things already. He'd received most of them, declined some with a raised eyebrow and (once) laughed out loud at the mere idea: No, that's quite all right.

It feels good, Alex had said. 

He was irritated. They were eating. They'd been out to eat, somewhere, and he'd said Hey would you like me to eat --

Really, thank you, but I'm not interested.

You don't need to be embarrassed about it. (Was Burr embarrassed? Impossible to tell. He was collected again, smiling a little, but he hadn't bloomed out in roses on his cheeks -- oh how Alex liked to see him blush, oh what he would do to see it again ...)

I'm not embarrassed, said Burr. Simply uninterested.

Alex tilted his head. You don't need to be afraid of physical pleasure.

Burr was about to reply, changed his mind, and shrugged instead.

Alex didn't bring it up again.

 

The things I could do to you, Alex had said when they first met.

Burr peered at him through a half-empty pilsner. Is that a statement? or an offer?

Both, said Alex.

What would you want in return?

Alex shook his head: I like -- I like to give. I don't need anything in return.

Bullshit, said Burr, but so cheerfully it took Alex a full heartbeat to realize he'd been turned down. Everyone wants something.

Not me, Alex said.

 

Later he thought: I should have said _I want you._

Later, he woke day after day with Burr's head on his pillow, and the longing was satiated, if not diminished.

 

Three years on nowadays and he still wasn't quite certain, not altogether. Would Burr leave? Would he? When would he? _When?_

 

I don't want anything, he'd said. I want you to be happy.

 

The first time Burr went down on him, Alex cried. Afterwards. He made it that long. He was alone in the shower and sobbing like knives were being taken out of his chest. It wasn't the best orgasm of his life or his first blowjob, or -- or anything special at all. It was a normal Sunday afternoon and a cat-lazy Burr was working at him with one hand and turning the pages of a book with the other and at length Alex whimpered and pushed him away, and Burr said: Let me use my mouth, then? and he knelt on the bed and --

 

Alex pressed his hands over his eyes. That feeling came back: knives in his skin, or swords. Who had put them there? Who could take them out? And what, he thought, would be left afterwards?

He could bleed out and no one would notice. He was bleeding -- he was bleeding right goddamn now -- _No_. 

 

He measured how his own breath moved in and out of his lungs, counted them by threes starting at one hundred and moving downwards -- counted the beat of his heart at his throat -- counted cars passing outside, their lights splaying brief on the ceiling and retreating again -- and when that was enough he returned to bed and to his lover, sleeping now; he ran his fingers into the grown-thick curls at the base of Burr's skull. _Aaron, Aaron_. 

Alex listened as Burr's breath moved easily in and out of his lungs. Burr was not punctured and wounded, he didn't need any of this to keep him whole, and Alex had no idea why he stayed. He could not imagine anything in himself that could compensate for all those swords and all that blood.

 

And yet last November the call came in -- _Your uncle is dead_ \-- and Burr made mechanical noises at the phone, making arrangements, sending flowers, sending money. Then he hung up the receiver, gently into its cradle; he put his hands around the phone-box like it was a precious unknown thing; and then he ripped it out of the wall.

Burr? said Alex. _Aaron_.

He'd wept then and Alex crawled into his lap and held him and said nonsense and wondered, wondered, until much later -- until that night -- and Burr said: He died too quickly. He should have suffered more. -- And he wept again. 

It sounded like old grief to Alex, who had his own; he recognized the kind of chains you wore so long, and so tightly immobile, that the skin grew up around them. The person grew. The iron did not. Eventually it ended up inside you. Alex hadn't known before that other people carried them. (Alex the pin-cushion. Alex the human target. He knew the way swords cut: first going in, and a second time coming out.)

 

Alex felt somehow that one of his own had dissolved -- not the wound but the weapon. He put his arms around Burr, that night, and he held on. And Burr cried like a whipped child, and then he cried again like a man, and when he was done with tears he kissed Alex on the mouth and took him with a sort of cautious violence, all sheathed claws and hidden teeth, and in the desperate aftermath of desperation they stared at each other -- unspeaking -- until Burr broke it. 

His voice was unshaking. 

He said: He never loved me.

Aaron, said Alex.

And I'm grateful he's dead, and I will be grateful to know that we'll never never talk about this again.

_Aaron --_

 

Thank you for the drink, Burr had said that first night, finishing it. I appreciate the ... the effort. Truly. But I'm still not going home with you.

Alex had switched bar-stools; he'd ordered another round; he'd done all but beg. He felt fragile, distracted. Irrationally hurt. He said: Why not?

I don't want to, said Burr.

Another one of those wounds opened up -- it was a knife maybe, this time. Alex ignored it. Said again: Why not? (He wanted to say and did not say What's wrong with me why won't you fuck me am I not even good enough to fuck not good enough to be a hole why not why not what can I do)

Well, said Burr. I was thinking of taking you to lunch instead.

Dinner, said Alex, choking on his heart.

Dinner, said Burr.

 

\-- dinner, and after dinner they went home to Burr's place, and Burr undressed Alex like he was a work of art in a museum, like he was a statue or a painting; he took off each piece of clothing and folded it, not looking at him, not really, until Alex was almost naked and shivering with his arms crossed, uncomfortable and worried and still yearning, saying: Burr. Please.

So they did.

 

Afterwards: I thought you weren't going to do that.

Hmm?

You said you wouldn't sleep with me.

You said Please, said Burr, who was falling asleep as he spoke, his breathing turning heavy and even and slow. You asked.

 

He had asked. Alex watched the tension ebb away from Burr's face, how his mouth went slack and curved up a little with dreaming.

He had asked for this.

 

He asked again two days later, when they self-consciously met up for drinks -- and Burr smiled so beautifully, and pink spread over his cheeks, and Alex felt something in his chest constrict. Burr was so beautiful, smiling.

He was so beautiful, eyes shut and moaning, spread out under Alex's hands -- and when he came, he rested a moment to feel all his pleasure -- and then he reciprocated without question. He touched with fingers and tongue until Alex made noises of his own, pain-sounds

(why? why? Burr wasn't even as good for him as all that -- Alex had had better --)

 

and afterwards Burr watched him. You alright?

I'm okay.

Thumb on his lips, sweeping outwards; mouth meeting mouth. Thank you, said Burr.

Thank you, Alex wanted to say, did not say

And Burr watched him. You're staying?

Um --

It's alright, if you want to stay. And it's alright if you want to go. (A pause.) I'd prefer if you stay.

Alex didn't know anymore, how could he know, what was the right thing -- what did Burr want --

but Burr's breath was even and slow and if he was pretending to sleep it was a damn good job and Alex was so warm and the bed was so comfortable

and he'd just rest a moment, that was all, just a moment before he got up and left

he'd just shut his eyes

and he woke to daylight streaming. 

He had stayed. Somewhere he'd made a choice -- not knowing to, not wanting to make it -- he'd chose this -- 

 

Was that good? said Burr. What do you want? 

I don't want anything, said Alex. He felt now for the first time the edge of a lie.

Everyone wants something, Burr said; he was sleepy and (for the moment at least) disposed towards communication. 

You want me, said Alex. It was a question.

Mmm.

I want to make you happy.

Alex thought that he might want to be happy.

 

\-- and the steadiness of Burr drew on him like a chain, link pulling against link so certain and so silent, Alex didn't notice anything but the force of it -- he didn't even see his own motion until he was there, arrived. Already gone.

Already here. Burr was here. That steady pull, the sea-drag, took him under and kept him and kept him -- and how many times had he cried in the shower? 

how many times had he cried after they fucked

how many times had Burr woken and held him

how many times would it take

how long would he need

how long could he keep going on hurting and hurting before Burr got tired of patching his wounds and left

how long

 

And still every morning he woke up

and Alex had stayed

and Burr was there.

**Author's Note:**

> i am (more or less) available on tumblr  
> @littledeconstruction


End file.
